


Alone At Last

by Fontainebleau



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Centennial Celebrations of 1876, Comedy of Errors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 20:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12196650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau
Summary: Mag7 Week Day 4: CelebrationBilly and Goodnight attempt to enjoy some time together.





	Alone At Last

The rain had been threatening to come on all day, and when it did, just as they reached the town limits, it came with a vengeance, descending from the leaden sky in torrents. ‘Not the night to be low on funds,’ said Goodnight gloomily, ‘we’ve not enough even for the common room at the boarding-house.’ 

‘Can try the stables,’ said Billy, and Goodnight caught the anxious glance that flickered in his direction; he was still nursing the aftereffects of a confrontation that had turned nasty, and it was true, any shelter would be better than none. 

‘Needs must,’ he said tiredly, squaring his shoulders as they approached the livery. The owner, when he poked his head out in answer to their shouts, proved to be both surly and suspicious, unmoved by the rain dripping from the brims of their hats and starting to soak through their clothes; at first he seemed all too likely to refuse their request to bed down in the straw, but Goodnight hitched his face into a smile, wrung out the last of his charm, and finally won a grudging agreement that they might see out the night in the hayloft. 

‘Not the fanciest lodging we’ve ever had,’ he said resignedly as they heaved their gear up the narrow ladder, but Billy shrugged. 

‘It’s dry and warm, and if we heap up the straw it could even be comfortable.’ Goodnight bumped his shoulder, glad as ever for his stoic calm in the face of what others might consider disheartening conditions. 

And Billy turned out to be right: once they’d found a distant corner of the loft where they could spread their blankets over the hay, it seemed to promise a decent night’s rest after all, the persistent drumming of the rain on the roof turned comforting as it mingled with the satisfied snuffles of the horses below.

Goodnight shrugged off his damp coat and spread it to dry, then sank gratefully onto their makeshift bed. He thought he was too tired to want to eat, but Billy went away without asking and came back with two bowls of food magicked up from the back door of the saloon. They ate cross-legged by lanternlight with only the whickering horses for company, the surly proprietor having taken himself off in search of a more lively evening’s entertainment, and as Goodnight’s flask passed back and forth between them his temper slowly improved. 

‘We’ll get some cash for a better place tomorrow,’ he promised, but Billy just smiled as he mopped the last gravy from his plate. 

‘This is fine,’ he said, and Goodnight knew he really meant it. ‘Peaceful.’ He had to agree: the hayloft was at least dry, snug even, and really, they could have been doing so much worse. 

Goodnight finished his food, then stretched out full length on the blankets. The straw underneath was springy and fragrant, and he lay with his hands under his head, listening to the rain. Billy set the plates aside and came to kneel beside him, appraising. ‘Feeling better?’ 

‘Much,’ said Goodnight, smiling back from his recumbent position. ‘Want the last of the whisky?’ 

‘You have it,’ said Billy, dropping down next to him, but Goodnight put his flask down in the straw and pulled him close instead. 

‘A night alone in the stables has its compensations, cher,’ he observed; Billy rested his head against his shoulder, and they lay for a while, content and relaxing. 

After a while Billy propped himself on one elbow to bring their faces level and put a hand to Goodnight’s cheek to draw him into a kiss; Goodnight shifted to face him, draping an arm across his waist. He hadn’t the will to do much more than lie kissing slow and dreamy, feeling the tickle of straw and soft black hair, and fingers teasing gently at the nape of his neck, but Billy gradually became more purposeful, his hand first sliding under Goodnight’s shirt to stroke bare skin, then straying downward after a while to rub over the front of his pants. 

Despite himself Goodnight found himself easing up enjoyably against the press of his palm; ‘More energetic than you thought?’ murmured Billy, amused. 

‘Don’t let me discourage you,’ said Goodnight, closing his eyes as nimble fingers started to work open his buttons. 

He wound his hands in Billy’s hair, kissing again in pleasurable anticipation -

– when a sudden slam made them both jump and freeze, and a swirl of cold wind rushed up from below. ‘Shit,’ said Billy. 

‘C’mon, lads,’ announced the liveryman, ‘we can set up in here,’ and from the chorus of approval it was plain he’d brought his friends back with him: there was clinking of bottles and laughter as they settled in. 

‘Goddamn it, said Goodnight with feeling, rolling reluctantly onto his back. ‘Here for the night, by the sound of it. My virtue is spared after all.’ 

‘Best try to get some sleep.’ Billy turned over, pulling the blanket across them both, and Goodnight nuzzled his nose briefly into the back of his neck, promising, ‘Tomorrow we’ll get a room of our own.’

\--

‘Thought he’d never shut up.’

It wasn’t like Billy to be so impatient, but the boarding-house clerk had been unusually annoying, clearly dubious at renting to an Asian, and then, when Goodnight leaned on his name a little and secured them a room, fussily listing the regulations and standards of behaviour required. It had cost them both some effort to remain polite – and Billy’s eyeroll at the dark admonitions about female guests in the room had almost cracked Goodnight’s composure – but eventually the clerk had run out of rules to rehearse and reluctantly handed over their key. 

‘At least it’s a room, cher, and a real bed.’ Goodnight looked up from his bag where he was hunting up a clean shirt as Billy closed the door behind them, and to his surprise, locked it. He certainly had plans for the bed with its hard mattress and red bedcover, but plans which, after a night in the stables and a day earning money, seemed to him to dictate a trip to the bathhouse first. 

Billy planted himself directly in front of him, fingers reaching to trace his collar and an expectant look on his face. ‘Weren’t we in the middle of something?’ 

‘Bath first,’ said Goodnight with mock severity. 

Billy began to back Goodnight up against the bed, grinning at his intake of breath as he leaned in to nip at his throat. ‘Bath second.’

‘I smell of horse,’ protested Goodnight with somewhat less conviction: Billy in this mood was hard for him to resist. 

‘Do I look like I care?’ demanded Billy, efficiently grabbing his ass. It didn’t feel like he cared, certainly, and Goodnight’s resolve began to crumble.

‘At least let me wash,’ he pleaded as Billy burrowed into his collar, and Billy sighed impatiently but relented. ‘As long as I can watch.’ 

He lounged unhelpfully on the bed while Goodnight fetched water and filled the basin, undoing his shirt buttons with agonising slowness; he watched as Goodnight, bare to the waist, hastily scrubbed his head and torso, trailing a hand idly over his own chest. 

Goodnight’s skin prickled at those dark eyes on him as he stripped out of pants and drawers and picked up the soap again. ‘Why aren’t you helping?’ he asked, and quick as a flash Billy was off the bed and pressing up against his back. 

‘Only had to ask,’ he purred, plucking the soap from his hands to lather it up. ‘Let’s make sure you’re good and clean,’ he breathed hot in Goodnight’s ear, and all Goodnight could do was lean back, groaning in pleasure: so good, _so good_ \- 

\- ‘Mr Robicheaux!’ The clerk’s shout was accompanied by an insistent rapping on the door. They froze in silence, but it was no use. ‘Mr Robicheaux!’ 

‘He knows we’re here’ gritted Goodnight, then louder, though somewhat strangulated, ‘Not now!’ 

The clerk was not to be deterred. ‘Mr Robicheaux! There’s a problem with the accommodation – I need you to move to the common room.’ 

They both slumped, desire guttering like a spent candle. ‘Five minutes more,’ despaired Goodnight. 

‘Would have taken me considerably longer than that,’ smirked Billy, with a last nibble at his ear, and Goodnight groaned again, this time in heartfelt frustration. 

Billy huffed, buttoning his shirt and crossing the room to dig into his bag. ‘You sort it out with him – I’ll be at the bathhouse.’

\--

They’d walked a long way beyond the town, following the river from where it splashes shallow just behind the church, taking the path beside it as it deepens and calms, brown water running lazily with just little ripples and eddies. From bare banks they’d strolled through low bushes and then trees, the sunlight sifting down to flicker over their clothes as they walked. 

Goodnight held his hat in his hand, feeling the heat through his shirt and vest; he looked sideways at Billy, cool as ever, and caught a hint of a smile. Further, and further again, to where the trees thicken and start to overhang the river, and there it was, a little pool of sunlight filtering through the leaves onto grass growing thick and soft, water murmuring gently in the background. 

Billy sat down with his back against a tree, hat laid carefully to one side, and Goodnight flopped down onto the grass next to him. ‘Alone at last, cher,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What shall we do with our peaceful afternoon by the river?’ 

Billy said nothing, and Goodnight leant back on one elbow, stretching at full length so he could gaze at his partner. A slight sheen sat bright on Billy’s skin; his eyes were distant, following the ripples in the water, though his lips gave a tiny twitch. 

‘A little fishing, perhaps. I’m sure there are catfish aplenty just waiting for a bait.’ Billy lifted one hand deliberately, and pulled open the fastening of his glove, and Goodnight’s heart began to beat a little faster. Billy eased the glove loose, then took one finger between his teeth and pulled it off, tossing it into his upturned hat. 

‘Or we could see if there are any berries ripe, do some picking.’ Billy still didn’t respond, but he stripped off his other glove the same way and tossed that too in the direction of his hat. 

Goodnight rolled towards him. ‘There’s always target practice: doesn’t hurt to keep our reflexes sharp.’ Billy tilted his head back against the bark of the tree and closed his eyes; his chest rose and fell as he breathed deep and sighed it out. 

‘No ideas? I’m a little disapp-‘ The words cut off into a yelp of delight as Billy lunged towards him and rolled him onto his back. 

‘Stop _talking_ ,’ he growled in Goodnight’s ear, and Goodnight breathed in sharp at the scent of him, heady and rich in the still hot air. He grabbed two handfuls of shirt, hauling him down to kiss, then buried his face in the V of his collar. 

Billy held him down, heavy over the length of his body. ‘I have had’ – and a hand twitched Goodnight’s shirt from his waistband, pushing it up over his stomach – ‘nothing to do’ – Billy’s mouth hot on his skin was intoxicating, and Goodnight grabbed at his ass, losing himself in the sensation – ‘for the last two days’ – Billy broke off, throwing his head back with a gasp as Goodnight squeezed him through his pants – ‘but think of ideas.’ 

Goodnight flipped them over, hot and panting. ‘Got an idea of my own …’ he said, moving purposefully down Billy’s body, hands already at his belt – 

\- when a sudden splashing and a high-pitched shriek came drifting on the wind. 

‘No.’ Billy sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, and they stilled, listening. Another, closer, and another, in different voices, and the sound of churning water. 

‘Christ _damn_ it,’ breathed Goodnight, his expression of disbelief mirrored in Billy’s face; ‘even out here?’ 

‘I can’t-,’ groaned Billy, but the sound of footsteps and laughter was almost on them, and they sat up, rapidly untangling themselves. 

By the time the children came running into their glade the two of them were sitting at a respectable distance, calmly observing the dragonflies that hovered over the water’s surface. 

‘Hey,’ said the oldest, a girl, stopping short in dismay at seeing them, ‘you’re in our place.’ 

‘Believe me,’ said Goodnight with as much grace as he could muster, ‘we wouldn’t have chosen this spot if we’d known.’ 

The boys had poles and lines over their shoulders: ‘You here to fish too?’ asked one. 

‘Yes,’ said Billy, with a glance at Goodnight, ‘that’s just what we came to do.’ 

The boy looked around, obviously confused by their lack of fishing gear, but his brother offered helpfully, ‘’S a good spot for catfish. If you cut a pole you can use our bait.’ 

‘An afternoon’s fishing: just what I was hoping for,’ said Goodnight resignedly. 

\--

The plain was shimmering with noonday heat; sweat gathered in the small of Goodnight’s back as they rode; puffs of dust rose from the horses’ hooves, and skinny birds occasionally darted away, disturbed. As they’d left the town behind them and headed out alone on the trial, he hadn’t needed to look at Billy to read the single thought they shared, but in a landscape so open they’d find no privacy before nightfall. 

He was too distracted for his usual eloquence, their conversation brief and inconsequential as they picked their way through the scrubby landscape; the sight of Billy sitting his horse beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon, thighs outlined muscular in his black pants, fingers fine-boned on the reins, was a peculiar form of torture.

As the sun was westering they found a suitable campsite in the shelter of a bluff; they swung from their horses and looked at each other wordlessly. It was unbearable, waiting as the shadows lengthened, going through the motions of camp – tethering the horses, gathering wood, setting the pot to boil; it seemed the sun would hang on the horizon indefinitely, its last red rays glinting on the bottle they passed between them and making the rockface behind them glow, but slowly, slowly, it slipped downwards, and from one moment to the next, snuffed itself out. 

They crashed together, gripping each other, heat radiating between them like the rock; Goodnight fisted his hands in Billy’s shirt, and gasped as Billy shoved a hand unceremoniously down the front of his pants. Billy laughed against his skin, teeth scraping lightly as he promised. ‘I’ll get you louder than that.’ 

Goodnight dragged him in, pulling the pins from his hair and sinking his hands into it, his kisses frantic, but Billy took him by the shoulders, stilling him: the flames reflected in his eyes as he commanded, ‘Strip for me.’ 

Goodnight swallowed, standing there in the firelight as Billy laid himself down on the bedroll, hair loose and naked hunger in his face. He was dizzy with desire as he unbuttoned his vest with shaking fingers and dropped it behind him. 

‘Go on,’ gestured Billy, hand splayed provocatively over his crotch, and Goodnight moved closer, tossing his shirt aside; their eyes locked as his hands closed on his buckle, and Billy licked his lips, reaching for his own – 

\- when there came an unmistakeable clatter of hooves and fall of stones in the distance. 

‘Hellfire!’ swore Billy, diving for his gunbelt as Goodnight spun away from the fire to grab his shirt. _How many of them? And what had they seen?_

‘Who’s there?’ challenged Billy, pistol trained into the dark, and a voice called nervously, ‘Hello, the camp?’ 

‘Show yourself,’ Billy ordered, impressively wild in his half-dressed state, and Goodnight steadied his own gun, shock turning to slow-burning anger. 

The pale man in dark clothes and flat preacher’s hat who edged nervously into the firelight, hands spread wide, was clearly intimidated, glancing between them. 'Preacher?’ grated Goodnight, beyond surprise, and the man smiled wanly, shrinking in front of the weapons trained on him. 

‘Thomas MacNamara,’ he said in a strong brogue, proffering a conciliatory hand. ‘Man of God, and looking for company and safety on a dark night: would you and your friend be averse to my joining you at your fire?’ 

Goodnight looked at Billy who shrugged, returning his pistol to its holster, obviously convinced this MacNamara was harmless. ‘Lucky we didn’t shoot first,’ observed Goodnight grimly. What have we done to deserve this? 

‘I commend your caution,’ agreed the preacher eagerly, ‘this is lawless country.’ 

It was a sore temptation simply to run him off, but Goodnight recognised that the damage was already done; he ground his teeth as he gestured to the fire. ‘Be our guest,’ he said, though it ended in a hiss of frustration as Billy passed behind him, trailing regretful fingers lightly over his ass; the preacher winced. 

‘It’s most civil of you both,’ he said with an ingratiating smile, ‘and I can at least contribute food and drink to our supper, and call on the Lord to bless our company.’ 

‘You do that, Preacher,’ said Goodnight darkly, reaching for the cooking pot, ‘because I’ve certainly done something to offend him recently.’

\--

Goodnight pushed open the brass and mahogany doors and marched across the plush carpet of the hotel lobby to rap peremptorily on the counter. Billy followed at a safe distance, in part because high-end establishments like this sometimes took exception to him, and in part because Goody in this mood was best left in charge. 

MacNamara had accompanied them for the whole three days it had taken them to reach Fort Laramie, anxious to stay under their protection; he’d punctuated their journey with prayers and homilies, and more significantly, had made more than a moment’s privacy impossible to find. Billy had eventually reached a point of resigned acceptance, of humour, even, but Goody, never so self-controlled, had been gradually building up steam like an overheated boiler. 

When the preacher finally took his leave of them the outskirts of the town, Goody had turned to Billy and outlined the plan he’d been laying with unwavering focus. ‘We go to the bathhouse and clean up. We find a hotel, a fancy one, and we put our money down for a private room, even if it takes every cent we have. We make clear that we will not be disturbed for any reason, we lock the door and barricade it, and we _go to bed_.’ 

‘Yes, Goody,’ said Billy, amused and aroused in equal measure: Goody in this mood promised a particularly piquant entertainment.

And the first stages of the plan had been carried out without a hitch, the two of them quickly and efficiently sluiced of trail dust and sweat in the public washroom; they stood in the lobby with hair damp and sleek, and in clean shirts and underwear. 

A cheerful young man popped his head up behind the hotel desk. ‘We’d like a room,’ announced Goodnight. ‘Double is fine. Two nights.’ 

The clerk looked him up and down and then threw a slightly more puzzled glance at Billy behind him, but as Goodnight clinked his coins on the counter his face cleared. ‘No difficulty with that, sir. Room six is vacant.’ 

He offered the register and a pen, remarking conversationally, ‘You’ve picked a good day to visit our fine community.’ 

Goodnight ignored him, finishing his sprawling signature with a flourish. ‘And we won’t want to be disturbed.’ 

‘No, sir,’ said the clerk helpfully, ‘but you won’t want to miss the parade.’ 

And that was indeed the one thing Goody’s plan hadn’t accounted for: as they’d threaded their way through the streets they hadn’t been able to ignore the unusual wave of patriotic enthusiasm which appeared to be gripping the populace of Fort Laramie. 

‘Happy Fourth of July,’ had called a man hanging a banner from a storefront, and that explained some of it, but the bathhouse man had asked them, ‘Here for the centennial celebrations?’ as he took their fee, and as they approached the hotel a fat man in a fancy coat had enquired jovially, ‘Come to join our festivities?’ 

‘No,’ Goody had answered firmly, ‘appreciated, but no.’ 

Now Billy asked curiously, ‘The parade?’ 

The young man’s face shone with enthusiasm. ‘For the Centennial! A hundred years – we’ve never had a Fourth of July like it! There’s to be a parade with a band along to the square, right past here, and then prayers and speeches, and afterwards fireworks and music and all – you sure won’t want to miss it.’

‘Let me explain this clearly,’ interrupted Goodnight, leaning over the desk and plucking the key from his hand. ‘We are not here to see a parade. My associate and I do not want to be disturbed. Not for the speeches or the fireworks; not if the hotel catches fire, or an Apache war party rides through the doors. Not even if the British invade again. Not under any circumstances. Do I make myself plain?’ 

The clerk nodded, clearly baffled by his vehemence. ‘I’ll bring your bags, show you up.’ 

‘No,’ said Goodnight with finality, ‘We can manage. Won’t be needing to trouble you further, so don’t hesitate to go out. Enjoy your celebrations.’

As Goody led the way upstairs Billy mused to his back, ‘Fireworks, did he say? Perhaps we should, you know – don’t see this kind of thing every day …’ 

Goody turned and fixed him with a look that would have melted lead. ‘Only show I’m interested in is happening right here,’ he said roughly, and Billy smirked at the heat in his expression. 

Goody locked the door and let his bag fall with a thump as he grabbed a chair and wedged it under the handle. ‘Clothes off,’ he ordered, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug off his boots, then starting briskly on his own vest. Billy stood watching in amusement, but Goody gestured at him peremptorily: ‘No more delays. No drawing it out.’ 

It was on the edge of being ridiculous, Goody stripping off with such businesslike determination, but when Billy saw him standing, bare and flushed, hand held out in invitation, a wave of lust came crashing through him, and then there was just the clink and rustle as his own clothes were shed and tossed aside, and a low chuckle as Goody pulled him down onto the bed. 

To begin with their shared urgency was such that they heard nothing beyond their own breathing, the creak of the bedstead and the occasional appreciative hum, but gradually the strains of approaching music, not very expertly played, came drifting in through the window, accompanied by distant shouts and whoops. 

‘The parade,’ panted Billy between kisses, then as Goody lifted his head to listen, tugging him back down insistently, ‘Don’t stop.’ 

Goody sat up over his hips, his fingers tracing patterns over Billy’s skin, eyes dark with lust. ‘I have absolutely no intention of stopping.’ And he laid a trail of kisses deliberately down Billy’s chest to the sound of a ragged cheer from under their window.

Billy scored his nails down Goody’s back, revelling in it, bare skin and hot mouth and privacy, and the sounds of the celebration outside became part of it, the swelling music mingling with the groans of satisfaction they drew from each other, the kisses pressed into heated skin accompanied by stamps and whoops of glee, nerves tingling with bursts of pleasure like the firecrackers popping in the street.

The music faded again, and in the silence came just the clink of a stopper and a heartfelt sigh from Goody. ‘At last. At _last_.’ His voice lowered to a satisfied purr. ‘Take your time, cher.’ 

Billy paused. ‘Wasn’t there something,’ he mused, ‘about how loud I can get you?’ And he laughed low in his chest at Goody’s hiss of – 

**‘Brothers!** ’ The strident voice, as loud as if the speaker was in the room with them, made them flinch in horror. **‘A hundred years ago this very day, our forefathers took the boldest step …** ’. 

They lay motionless, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. 

‘ **… determined that their burning desire for liberty and self-determination should not be denied …** ’ 

‘Son of a _bitch_ ,’ cursed Billy, but Goody grabbed his shoulders. ‘Come on, Billy’ he grinned, ‘where’s your patriotism?’ 

‘Won’t find it here,’ said Billy shortly, but, ‘Burning desire! Liberty!’ declared Goody, punctuating his words with deft touches to regain Billy’s wavering attention. ‘We’re here to celebrate, and that’s what we’ll do.’

‘ **... gathered at the altars of unity, seeking one common end, the happiness of our people …** ’

Billy buried his face against Goody’s skin, straining to concentrate on his warm nakedness, the teasing touches of his hands, the way he writhed underneath him, hot and eager, but try as he might, fragments of the speech crept into his consciousness, too penetrating to ignore as the patriotic cadences rolled over them. 

‘ **… one nation, one people, bound together by the silver cords of love and affection …** ’ 

Slowly, though, as his desire rose once more, the flow of praise and exhortation began to weave itself into his efforts, the speaker’s passion and the crowd’s applause spurring him to greater efforts. 

**… this marvellous land, from shining ocean shore to snowcapped peak, its towering forests and mighty rivers …** ’ 

And Billy mapped out his own beloved land, the blue rivers of Goody’s veins and the forest of his beard, the ridges of his ribs and plains of his stomach, the familiar contours of his new-found country.

‘ **…building this nation through the tireless labour of the strength of our backs…** '

‘You heard the man,’ panted Goody gleefully, ‘tireless labour, cher. What this country’s built on.’ 

‘Let’s see you labour for once,’ growled Billy, rolling them over, and Goody grinned sharp, more than equal to the challenge, grinding down on him until all he could do was clench his jaw and groan. 

‘ **Let us give thanks** ,’ thundered the speaker, ‘ **for the efforts of these remarkable men!** ’ 

‘Oh, I do,’ breathed Goody, ‘believe me, I do,’ and Billy took hold of his wrists and held him down, the thunder in his ears from his beating pulse finally drowning out all other sounds. 

Orotund phrases rolled and flowed, and the bed creaked rhythmically along with it as with slow inevitability the speaker built to his climax, wave after wave of oratory, fanning the audience to cheers of fervent approval, louder and louder, then the cries broke off in a breathless pause – 

– and with a whoosh the first rocket went shooting up, and – _crack!_ – exploded in a scatter of coloured stars. A second, _whoosh_ and _crack_ , then more and more, one after the other, climbing and bursting in a dizzying display of shimmering light.

Billy rolled over, chest heaving, head thrown back, and let relaxation gradually seep through him as the faint strains of discordant music started up again. After a while he raised himself on one elbow to look at Goody, lying loose-limbed and sated at his side. 

Goody smiled into his eyes, lazy and satisfied. ‘Worth waiting for, cher,’ he said happily, ‘even if it did take a hundred years.’

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a fill for Day 2's prompt, Together, but morphed into something closer to Celebration as it went on. Most of the quotations in the final section are from actual recorded Centennial speeches.
> 
> Speak to me: fontainebleau22.tumblr.com


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